Outlanders
by GreaterGoodIreland
Summary: Many souls have been dragged through the Fade from Earth to Thedas, all of them warriors of a sort. The stories of a centurion, a musician, a druid, a mercenary, an engineer and more, from different eras of Earth's history. Each would change Thedas in ways they could not comprehend, and possess powers sought by many. Accompanying stories to Outlander
1. TIBERIUS I

_AUTHOR'S FOREWORD:_

 _This is the long-promised side short stories for Outlander, telling the tale of other humans throughout history that have been pulled from Earth to Thedas, starting with the First Outlander. It's also the story of the Tiberius dynasty, and their attempts to claim these individuals for Tevinter._

 _Each chapter will be around one or two thousand words._

 _I hope the story is readable without having an intimate knowledge of the main story, but it is best to check that out before this._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _ **Pater Familias**_

As he marched through soft mud and moss, dodging trees, Marcus Tiberius Pansa was reminded of why hated Germania.

It had been ten years since the great slaughter at Teutoburg, and it was ten years of complete misery. The Thirteenth Legion had been called in to safeguard the borders against the Germans after that defeat, and every man in it discovered the reality of the situation. The entire province could be compared to no other in its difficulties. The air was cold, yet thick, forcing a man to cough nearly constantly except at the very height of summer, when he was crushed by heat exhaustion. It was heavily wooded and threaded with freezing rivers. Worse, it was the haunt of witches and druids, cursing those who stumbled through the land.

Not that Marcus would ever speak his complaints aloud. There had been victories aplenty, revenge for the dead. He had killed one hundred and thirty one warriors and maybe twice as many of those who were not. It would be a disgrace to dishonour Mars' blessings upon him to bitch like an old woman about the weather. Besides, he had finally received his much sought-after promotion to second-spear centurion, after a little more than a decade in the army and much time spent learning how to read and write.

Centurions didn't complain. Centurions disciplined those who complained.

Instead, Marcus turned his hatred of the land and its conditions into hatred for the people that lived there. That was an easy salve for his woes. The Germans stubbornly refused to realise the inferiority of their way of life and engaged in any number of barbaric traditions. He had personally seen the pots in which men had been cooked, the gnawed bones tossed into piles beside them. At least those who could be bought off had the good sense to wash a little more than those that didn't.

It was the perpetrators of such acts that pushed continued war with Rome. The barbarian priests saw the presence of the legions as a great blasphemy. They encouraged and coordinated acts of terrorism up and down the frontier of the Rhine, from the Alps to the ocean, even as Roman armies defeated German armies on their side of the river.

Which was why Marcus found himself tasked to retaliate.

The goal was simple. Take the centuria across the Rhine into the lands of the Chatti, to a hillfort village atop a wooded hill nearby, and slaughter everyone to be found there. Boats had been observed taking captives from recent raids to the banks of the river. Scouts had observed huge pyres and drumbeats. Stopping whatever was going on wouldn't put an end to the war on the edge of the world, but it would be another victory.

The soft clanking of the armour underneath the long red cloaks seemed to echo through the forest as the legionnaires advanced up the hill. Marcus winced. He searched for any sign that they had been heard, through the morning mists. There was none, but that did not mean anything. Worse, the line was breaking up due to the trees, both those standing and the fallen ones.

"Slow," he ordered, "Keep order."

His second, Lucanus, repeated the command quietly to the runners. The advance faltered as the whole unit received their instructions, but resumed at the desired less audible pace soon afterwards.

Much better, Marcus thought. There would be far less time for the savages to prepare for the attack now. If the alarm went up, it was because the other raiding parties had done something stupid, not him. The other centurions weren't new to this either. The noose was tightening around the druids' world.

Yet, as he peered forwards towards the village once more, the walls of wood and mud discernible at last, his sight was robbed from him. Blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision, it took him a minute of half-stumbling to realise that there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

Fog had closed in, as if it had been poured like milk from the sky, throwing the world under a white-green liquid the likes of which he had never seen before. He opened his mouth, but bit down the thought he wished to speak aloud. The men didn't need it in their own heads.

"Sorcery."

Lucanus had said it for him. He swivelled around to rebuke his second, only to find that the entire unit had stopped dead. Eyes searched the swirling mists, wide between the rims and cheek-pieces of the round helmets of most of the legionaries.

Marcus searched his mind for something to say, but came up with nothing but empty platitudes, his mind addled with his own fear. This was supposed to be an easy errand, to blood the newcomers and see if everyone else worked well together under the new arrangement. The recruits were well trained, but real battle hadn't yet selected those who could tough it out through the worst the world could throw.

The one directly behind was pissing himself. The poor bastard, Marcus thought, he wasn't going to survive. The veterans were quiet, indicating that they didn't like what was happening either. There were no calls from any of the lower ranks to keep moving. Everyone had decided that they weren't in favour of continuing, without another word.

The sound of fighting began ahead. The clash of metal on metal, the shouts of exertion, the screams of fear. The other centuria had made it to the village first.

Marcus found his backbone again.

"You hear that!" he roared, pointing uphill with his sword, "Our brothers aren't pissing themselves over a little fog! No sorcery can protect the Germans from Roman steel! Are we going to sit here and let Aulus' men have all the fun?!"

"NO!" shouted the veterans, startling the new recruits with their zeal. Marcus smiled. He had the advantage now.

"MARS!" Marcus cried, sword held aloft.

"ROMA VICTOR!" cried all, from eldest to youngest.

"Charge!" Marcus ordered.

The signifier went first, holding the centuria's standard close to him in one arm, the other grasping his blade. Marcus followed, every other man falling in step with him. What had been a soft pattering of boots on the ground turning in a clanking rumble. Silence was no longer a requirement.

The line rolled forwards and upwards, towards the memory of the village walls. The fog was still too thick to see them until they were right beside them. When they reached the walls, the sounds of fighting easily distinguishable now, Marcus found that they had buckled outwards. Curious, but helpful.

"Pull this away!" he ordered.

A dozen men did as they were commanded, while the rest formed up and readied their javelins. The logs were shoved and grabbed aside, until there was enough space for the centuria to pass. They had approached from a side where there were buildings, and so no sight of battle greeted them. Instead, bright green light shone, glowing around the cracks in the buildings. The men began hesitating again.

"Romans are dying," Marcus growled at them, "Forward!"

He was obeyed, but without the previous enthusiasm.

The centuria marched around the buildings, shields raised. The sight in the middle of the village was as strange as Marcus had expected. In the very centre, hovering over a plinth, was a glowing green light that sparked like lightning. The centurion removed his eyes from it, as the air around seemed clearer from its presence, and the sounds of battle seemed to be drowned in the light instead. A sure sign that it was the source of the sorcery and thus was not to be trusted. He looked on the figures around it instead.

Aulus' centuria had failed to remain in formation and they were fighting Germans in individual combats all around the space. Strangely, some of the Germans seemed to be fighting other Germans as well. Bearded, bare-chested warriors fighting with black-hooded figures just as often as red-cloaked Romans. The figures in black, druids Marcus assumed, definitely had the upper hand on both of the other factions.

Except that most were turned away from his men.

He nodded to Lucanus, who raised his hand over his head and then dropped it again. The legionaries threw their javelins. The hail of black projectiles fell on the Germans, both hooded and unhooded. To Marcus' great satisfaction, they fell in equal numbers, some with shouts and moans of surprise, others bloodlessly with strange screeches that barely seemed human. The latter didn't matter much. In a single stroke, he had proven to his men that all the enemies before him were mortal.

He gave the order to advance once more.

The men moved, drawing their gladii and laying them across their thighs to make the quick underarm thrust to the guts of their foes. Finally, the enemy noticed them. The black-clothed druids flung themselves at the line, revealing their hideous faces. Grey-skinned, gaunt and pockmarked faces, glowing eyes, large heads that were attached to necks that were too long. How Marcus had thought they were men before, he did not know. If he had not seen twenty of them felled not seconds earlier, he would have thought them evil creatures, immune to his efforts to kill them.

They battered against the shield wall, and the men stabbed, taking fight over flight. Marcus himself saw off the first, jamming his sword into its face and getting a gout of black ichor back for his trouble. The thing fell forwards onto his shield, and he snapped it forward for good measure. Whatever they were, they were not harder to kill than men. They did not seem to use weapons, instead relying on huge, muscular arms. Another detail that had been lost in the glow of the baleful green light. The men made short work of them.

The line ground forwards, stabbing and slicing its way through the opponents. The Germans, the real ones, backed themselves into a corner at the other side of the plinth, letting the creatures slow down Marcus while they took care of the other Romans. They had the better of Aulus, it was clear.

Unacceptable, Marcus thought. Whatever the hell was happening was second place to duty. If they avoided the light, which was very much his instinct to do, they would never make it in time to save their comrades. The Germans and Aulus' men seemed to have no trouble near the light, stragglers of both parties retreating or fighting the creatures nearby.

"With me!" Marcus shouted, and rushed forwards across the space. He plotted his route past the light, hoping simply to avoid being touched by the green lightning, sure that if he did so, no harm would come to him. Instead, he felt himself pulled, as if a god had grabbed his entire body with an invisible grasp, straight into the light.

Blinded by its brightness, Marcus shouted himself hoarse as the sensation of falling began to crush him.


	2. TIBERIUS II

_**Mater Familias**_

The temple hummed with power, easily heard over the quick mumbling of the thirty or so mages assembled for the dark purpose of the day.

The circular space was surrounded by steps, carved into the hard white rock and covered with cryptic elven runes. A single entrance, barely large enough for a single person, and closed off so that no one could change their minds. Arches held up a high, vaulted roof. Holes ran along the edge adjoining the walls, channels below them leading to the runes and to the central dais. In the day, these were the only entrance for the light of the sun. That night however, it would be blood pouring through them, not light. The blood of slit throats and slit limbs.

It was an amphitheatre of death.

Lucia ground her teeth, away from where the others chattered excitedly, unable to stomach the thought of what was about to take place.

Every one of those present, in their black robes and featureless masks, was a cousin. All the most powerful mages of the family. Among them were some of the most important figures in the legions of Tevinter, but none held sway in its government. The fear of the elves and their great empire had taken root among them, and ambition drove it still further. They needed power. Magical and political. The former granted the latter in Minrathous, but it was not as if one could simply buy magical ability. If it could be bought, the family would have already been placed among the Magisterium.

Her grandfather had come up with the great project to change their fortunes, and it had taken twenty-five years to realise. The entirety of her lifetime. This was no coincidence.

Lucia existed solely for this purpose, as did her many cousins. She bore his name in the feminine form as tribute to his foresight and wisdom. Unable to trust other familia, he had opted to breed his conclave of mages into existence. Lucia's own father was not of the family and had been slain as soon as he had outlived his own purpose; impregnating her mother with the seed of a powerful mage. She often wondered what sort of a man he was, when the darkness crept into her soul, as it was as the moment drew nearer.

All this, to breach the Fade and feed off its infinite energy, to make the family into one without equal.

To turn Tevinter into a true monarchy, with a pureblood dynasty to rule it forever.

It was insanity, of course. Even if it could work, Lucia had no desire to share such power with her hated cousins, who pawed at her and crowed about creating yet more children for the dynasty or who were jealous for the attentions given to her and the power she possessed. She was by far the most talented.

But the plan would not work, at least not the way her grandfather envisaged. She knew that there could only be one result from attempting to throw a leash on pure chaos; destruction. Mere mortals could not control such energies for more than a moment. The gods would surely act to destroy the world, out of spite or fear.

However, a mere moment was all Lucia needed to use the power her grandfather so desired to foil his plans. She had a plan of her own, one that she had formed during the experiments that would come to a head in this final ritual. One that would also solve the problem of the elves. If only she could succeed.

Lucia dropped to her knees, and clenched her hands together in supplication.

"Razikale, Goddess of Mystery," she whispered into the darkness, "I do not know if what I am to do is terrible or wonderful. Guide me."

The darkness did not whisper back an objection or encouragement. The Goddess would wait and see.

The only figure with a golden mask, other than Lucia herself, stepped loudly into the centre of the dais, the echoes booming around.

"It is time," declared her grandfather, "Gather, progeny of Lucius. Tonight, we write a new chapter in the history of our world."

The others filed forwards from the steps, their footfalls the only noise now save for the crackle of the lamps. Each mage stood in the circular channel around the dais, before eyes turned to her, full of expectation.

Gulping down the lump in her throat and willing the heat of fear away, Lucia went to her own place in the middle of the dais. Her grandfather placed his hands on her shoulders from behind, grasping her lightly. She shuddered under his touch, not with the pride or nerves that he would imagine she held, but with disgust.

"It is up to you now, my dear Lucia," he said gently, "We have gone as far as we can without a great sacrifice. You must lead us into this new era."

She shook him off, and glared at him over her shoulder. His mask hid his feelings.

Her grandfather soundlessly moved to the doorway, away from the action, and opened his palm above his head. A bolt of fire burst forth, through the hole to the outside. The screaming began immediately afterwards, as her mother's generation bled the slaves dry. A necessary sacrifice, but one that Lucia would not let be wasted by the egomania of her family's patriarch. Waterfalls of ichor began flowing down the walls, surging down the channels and around the feet of the others. The elven runes glowed blue. All was ready.

Lucia began the ritual.

She held her arms to either side, fists clenched. The others copied the movement. Her mind opened, and she commanded reality to shift, the Veil to step aside.

"Gloria Tevintera!" she proclaimed, as she was supposed to, "In Aeternum!"

"In Aeternum," the others chanted, "Tevintera Patria Nostra."

Unnecessary words, said so that the moment could be celebrated by the Tevene people for the rest of history, not out of any requirement to complete the task.

The blood flashed brightly as the others called upon its power. She felt a tingle as they transmitted every drop of it into her. Finally, the Veil began to obey. Green lightning, the raw energy of creation and destruction, began bolting throughout the chamber, striking the lake of blood and enveloping her. The moment had come. She ordered the power of the Fade to come forth.

Every mage present felt their power surge, as the Fade was harnessed and filled them. It was euphoric. Lucia could feel the growing power in herself and the others, building slowly to a climax.

The breach in the Fade widened with the growing strength of the participants. Lucia began to see what she had on three of the previous attempts. Another Veil, far stronger, bending under the weight of the ritual. Enough to see through. Behind the other Veil was another world. The glimmer of hope in an infinite race for more and more power.

The power in the mages grew still further, and as Lucia expected and hoped, the second Veil broke.

Demons charged forth into the other world, lacking the protections of the elven runes. Lucia watched, knowing that only she could see what was transpiring. The foul creatures seemed to join a battle already in progress, in a settlement surrounded by thick forest. Bare-chested men fighting others in armour and red-cloaks. She exhaled deeply, relieved that she had not broken the Second Veil in some uninhabited swamp.

The men of the other world fell before the demons with little trouble at first, having no experience of such creatures. Lucia felt a clutch of apprehension in her stomach. They fought bravely but stupidly, the shades more agile than the men were used to. She felt cold, fearing they might all be struck down.

And _he_ appeared. At the head of a new set of red-cloaked warriors, he seemed less afraid of a Fade breach spewing demons than all the others. He was handsome, tall, and built. Energy seemed to radiate from him, granting his men new valour. Lucia felt it. Razikale had sent him. This was the man she needed.

The others had served their purpose.

Lucia reversed the ritual. She stole back the power the Fade had given her cousins greedily, giggling wildly as she felt their confusion and anger.

With concentration, it was as easy as stealing from a child. They had no idea who was draining them of what they wanted most. The man helped too. He charged forwards, towards the breach she had created, close enough so that she didn't have to kill her cousins in order to complete the final step. There was time for that later.

Lucia summoned every remaining spark of magical power to her, and with it, she pulled the man into the Fade and guided him through it to the tear in the Veil. Finally, the others realised what was happening, and ceased the transmission of their magic. But it was too late.

The warrior in red stumbled through in front of Lucia, his back towards her, rolling to the ground with a groan. Between them, the Veil ruptured once more, closing but not sealing, leaving a green scar hanging in the air.

Lucia's heart leapt, thundering in triumph. She had done it!

The magical light flickered away, and her cousins' masks looked on in astonishment at what they had brought forth. As the man from another world recovered, pulling himself to his feet, her grandfather pushed his way forwards through the throng. He was shaking with anger and frustration, as Lucia had seen him do many times before. He was not a calm man. The intent was obvious. He intended to kill this obstacle.

Lucia's lip curled with the pleasure of what she was about to witness, knowing what the result of such an action would be in advance, but she was as surprised as anyone when the man spoke.

"Found you," he growled in Tevene, "You'll pay for what you did."

Her mind racing, Lucia struggled to believe what she had just heard. She had prepared spellwork to counteract the language barrier in advance, but by some miracle, it would be unnecessary. How was it possible? Had the gods given the same languages to two different worlds? As she pondered this, her train of thought was quickly interrupted.

Her grandfather's reaction to this revelation was to raise his palm once more. A gout of fire erupted from it, sending Lucia and the others standing behind his target reeling away, lest they be burned alive.

The man raised his shield, but disappeared in the orange flames. Lucia froze, waiting to see if she was right, fearing for her scheme and her life should it fail. The flames licked around the dais, a tornado of heat and light. Her grandfather was taking no chances. It took a few minutes for him to be absolutely satisfied that he had turned the interloper into ashes, and finally, the spell ended.

And the man stood there, his shield still raised, his body untouched.

He was immune to magic. And now, he knew it.

The retaliation for his attempted immolation began with a three step run towards Lucia's grandfather, followed by a sword thrust straight into his gut. She felt an immense weight lift from her shoulders, as the corpse fell back into the pool of blood and the man slashed his sword at the throat of the next-nearest cousin.

Thus died Lucius, son of Relsius, the would-be Emperor.

Lucia watched in fascination as her cousins strode forward, vengeance in their hearts and on their lips. She quickly summoned what little magic she had recovered already, and Fade-jumped away, up the steps and as far from the brawl as possible. Where she could watch until it was over.

The less intelligent of her cousins wasted no time in confirming precisely what she had theorised. They threw every form of magic in existence at the warrior. Fire, ice, lightning, fade-created projectiles, and even blood magic. None so much as tickled him, but he treated them as the attempts at murder they were. He went for them first, stabbing and cutting with absolute impunity, no magical barrier providing shelter from his blows. They fled, wading through the pools of blood, slipping, unable to match the sheer physicality of the interloper.

Lucia bit her lip, laughing to herself in elation. He was _perfect_. Her eyes ran over him, watching every movement of his body as he acted as her instrument of vengeance. Her Outlander was everything she had dreamed.

Still, her more intelligent cousins remained. Those who were leaders among the military, those who knew that one could not count on magic alone in combat. Although less numerous, they were infinitely more brave. They had drawn their daggers and swords, and circled around the warrior as he butchered the others, using the distraction well. The warrior's only warning was when one of the blades came crashing down into the segmented armour of his back. He spun on his heel and slammed his fist into the throat of the would-be assassin, and finally noticed the others. A desperate, failing fight began.

There was no risking the prize out of mercy. Downing a lyrium potion to restore her strength, Lucia aimed her staff and lightning lanced out of it. It crackled through the air, and her remaining cousins screamed in pain, twitching and collapsing with pain. They did not even have time to look her in the eye, to see their betrayer, before expiring where they lay, their bodies smoking slightly. The smell was enough even to overwhelm the ferrous scent of the blood.

The warrior turned once more and looked on Lucia at last.

She could not help but look on with desire. The man's eyes were fierce, but the colour of honey. He began approaching, sword and shield in hand, but not at a charge. She did not care. She was hypnotised. He stepped through the river of blood like it was a mere dirty puddle, and joined her on the steps.

Lucia felt fear close her throat, but a warmth in her belly. She tore off her mask and pulled down her hood, so that he could see her in turn. He slowed, as she had prayed he would. His curiosity had beaten out his rage at last, though both remained. He grabbed her by the scruff, gently, and slowly lowered his sword until it rested across her throat. They searched each other's faces for a moment, eyes fluttering from one feature to the next.

"You made a grave mistake," he said, "Bringing me here."

"It was no mistake," she replied, "It was the will of the gods."

The man paused, moving the blade away from her throat.

"You are Roman," he said, incredulous, "How is that possible?"

"I am Tevene, not Roman," Lucia replied, shaking her head, "There is something you need to know. This is not your world. You have been transported to another."

"I guessed that. I saw the underworld... I thought I had died... but why?" he asked, "What possible purpose could I have here?"

Lucia raised an eyebrow. She had thought he would ask to be sent back at once. His curiosity went beyond mere lust for her, she realised. Another desirable trait.

"Because I needed you," she said, "These men and women you have killed were planning to destroy both of our worlds. They tried to steal the power of the gods. I decided I had to stop them, but I could not do it alone."

"Is that why I was able to walk through their... fire and lightning?" the man said, "Did you grant me protection from it?"

"No," Lucia replied, "Your world does not have magic, only the gods can change it. It made sense that the magic of mere mortals could not harm you. Though the daggers of my dear cousins certainly could have."

The gentle reminder of how she had saved him did its work. The man grumbled, straightening up and sheathing his sword. An admission of the debt he owed. Even he could not have fended off a half-dozen men at the same time. He was honest, Lucia realised. She smiled at him warmly. Honesty could win him over. He noticed the expression too.

"I am Marcus Tiberius Pansa," the man said softly, "Second spear centurion of the Thirteenth Legion... from Terra." The unspoken question hung in the air.

"I am Lucia," she replied, "Welcome to Thedas."

Marcus leaned closer. "I can tell already from your face," he said, "There is no way back, is there?"

"No, there is not," Lucia confirmed, "And this world needs you. I need you." Not wasting any more time, she quickly pulled him closer and placed her lips on his. The explanation could come later. For now, she needed to thank him for freeing her.

He returned the kiss.


End file.
